


No Lights in the Attic

by InkedConstellations



Series: 23 Emotions Challenge [10]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-03 04:50:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5277335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkedConstellations/pseuds/InkedConstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allen never liked keeping memories. They were such painful things. The past was a curse that only turned him into someone twisted, someone with secrets and fear and always terribly alone inside his head. There was no value in something that weighed him down, kept him from moving in the mornings. And then Allen remembered a cure.</p>
<p>If memories hurt so much, he just has to forget.</p>
<p>An AU in which Allen is an amnesiac who doesn't want to get better and Kanda wishes he'd never gotten attached to such an idiot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Lights in the Attic

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [23emotions](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/23emotions) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Liberosis(n.): the desire to care less about things.
> 
> Warning for slight language near the end from Kanda.

Allen Walker supposes he's pretty intelligent. Or at least, he thinks he's supposed to be smart. Or was that somebody else? He can't remember, just like most things nowadays. It's a little annoying, when his head turns foggy and his eyes glaze over, reaching for an idea or a face that  _should be there_ but just isn't, but Allen also kind of likes the quiet. He finds its fairly relaxing to have an empty head. There's not as much to worry about, other than the fact that the bandages around his head itch. A lot.

Allen knows he had some sort of accident. Well, knows in a vague sense, as he can't remember anything. People won't tell him exactly what happened, but he figures it was bad. Bad enough to leave a scar stretching across the left half of his face, cutting his cheek in half and leaving a line of staples across his skull where snow white hair was shaved. The first time his bandages came off and Allen saw the shining metal flash in his reflection, he started picking at the staples in fascination. He didn't really notice when the first one pulled and began to bleed, he was just intrigued by the thought that  _this was his_ head  _and there was_ metal  _and for the first time he thought he might remember something_. But with that flutter of memory came fear and he shoved the thought away, yanking on the staple so hard he almost passed out and the nurses shouted and he was put under anesthetic.

The bandages stayed on, after that.

Some things about his body bother him, it's true. The white hair and his strange, birthmark-mottled left arm, both of which he thinks should have come from the accident, but people tell him are from Before, he doesn't mind much. What irks him are the scars riddling his body. There are three types, the first being ragged and long, likely the result of accidental falls or carelessness. Others seem fine and controlled, white lines stretching across his thighs and ankles. The two that catch his eye the most are across his wrists, and whenever he sees them Allen pulls down the sleeve of his hospital gown and is glad he can't remember anything. 

The third, round circles burnt into his forearm and shoulderblades, ache whenever the man with red hair and a smile too wide for his face comes bounding in, breath stinking of alcohol. He slaps Allen's shoulder and laughs, chatters about women and alcohol and saying over and over again, "You're gonna be fine, boy. You'll remember soon enough, eh?" It's clear he wants Allen to smile back, but Allen just stares at the man, reads the guilt in his eye as he turns away, gone for another month. The nurses say his name is Cross, Allen's guardian and the one paying for his hospital fees. Allen just shrugs. He can't remember anyways. 

There's a chart on the wall across from his bed, where he spends most of his time. It's not that Allen can't walk, he's not an invalid--and someone would kill him if he let himself be weak, but Allen can't quite remember who--but he always gets lost, and the nurses are a bother, always reaching to pull the card from around his neck with his name and room number, which he keeps forgetting. He pulls his mind back to the chart. Focus. Sure it's nice being quiet, but his head has to keep  _some_ new information or he'll never leave the hospital, and Allen abhors the idea of smelling like antiseptic for the rest of his life. Some part of him hates the scent.

Right, the chart. He studies it every morning, the faces he's supposed to know lined up above their names, his entire social world fit onto a sheet of laminated twelve by fifteen poster paper. Not that it helps when they actually come to visit, the peppy nurse with twin back ponytails who always smiles and asks him if he's feeling any better and her protective older brother, the doctor who seems to relish doing experiments more than actually curing people. The walking encyclopedia boy with only one eye that spouts memorized recovery rates and whatever else he has crammed into his head, watching Allen expectantly when he's finished as if Allen will have somehow magically retained this outpouring of information. The shriveled old man with eyes like a panda bear, who never says a word but just watches Allen and the Encyclopedia sadly. The vampire-like man who apologizes every time he touches Allen and the girl who folds into herself with sorrow every time she sees his scar, laying her fingers on his wrist and saying she wished she cold turn back time to take away his hurt.

Allen just shakes his head and smiles when she offers, tells her he's not in any pain now. It's true, without any memories, Allen feels remarkably light and carefree. It's only at night, when his head pounds sharply and he wakes from nightmares keening, drinking salt tears, that he wonders if the dreams are only dreams, and not the past trying to claw it's way to the surface. He rocks himself back to sleep, forcing the dryness from his throat and the wetness from his eyes, muttering.

"I don't want to remember 

I don't want to remember

I don't want to remember"

Until the pain fades and he's empty again. The mantra doesn't work on Tuesdays, because something happens on Tuesdays that he can't remember, but stirs up his blood and makes him heavy with reality. Today is Tuesday, says the calendar, faithfully maintained by his cheerful twin-tailed nurse. But what--

The doors to his room bang open, a man with long black hair pulled into a ponytail and a face scrunched by so many scowl lines Allen believes them permanent striding in purposefully. "Oi, Moyashi. How long are you going to play dumb in here?"

Oh, that's what it was. Allen smiles pleasantly. "Good to see you again..." His eyes drift to the chart, seeking the name for a quick moment before leaping back to the stranger's face. "Kanda. What does Moyashi mean again? I forget."

The other man's eyes flick towards the chart, scowl deepening. He didn't miss Allen's slip, for some reason hating these little props to Allen's memory more than any of his other visitors. "It means Moyashi, Moyashi, and Moyashi is you."

Allen frowns, confusion muddling his thoughts and pinning him to the ground. He pulls the cord from around his neck, peers at the letters of his name for confirmation. "But I thought my name was--"

"Hey, when are you gonna remember me without that stupid little cheat sheet chart of yours?" Kanda interrupts. He always interrupts, and Allen feels a spark of irritation from deep in his gut that no one else can pull out of him. That in itself is irritating, and Allen gives his own scowl. "It's fucking annoying being a scrap of paper in your head. Oi, are you even listening? Are you so brain-damaged you can't even remember a five minute conversation anymore?"

The words are biting, reminiscent of something, a bond they used to have and that name--Allen covers his ears, shaking his head as he tries to shove that feeling away, but Kanda's voice rises to pierce through his fingers.

"Oh, so you're trying to ignore me, how mature. Can't take the fucking truth, Moyashi, that you're not even trying--"

At that Allen explodes, hands slapping onto the cheap hospital comforter and tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, hot and sharp. "Shut _UP_ BaKanda. Of course I'm not trying, I don't  _want_ to get my memory back! Are you so brain-damaged that you can't understand  _I don't remember you_  or anything about my life before this room, and  _I don't want to_."

The man is finally quiet, eyes tight and hands curled into fists at his sides. He laughs, dry and bitter, hard tears on his tongue. "You're so cruel, sometimes. Why the hell I keep visiting you, I don't know, when all you do is throw the fact  _you don't remember a goddamn thing_ about us in my face. You do the same fucking thing every week and don't even remember it the next time I come, and then do something like call me by that stupid nickname--." His voice cuts off, strangles itself.

Allen purses his lips in confusion, anger already abandoned. "Nickname?"

Kanda just sighs, shakes his head. He leans over to pick up Allen's wrist, all aggression gone, and kisses the scars there in an action that simultaneously feels alien yet comfortably familiar. "Sometimes I wish I'd never met you, Allen Walker. Then I wouldn't care so much. I wouldn't know how much it hurts to care. I wish I could hate you for that."

There's something in the way he says Allen's name that almost nudges a memory to the surface, an edge of annoyance and affection and sadness that tugs the image of a smirk and warm fingers in his hair but then the man is leaving and Allen reaches out, he has to catch him, stop him from going, but it is too late. Allen wonders why he was so upset a few minutes ago, the beginning of a memory fading as the door closes behind the swish of a ponytail. What was his name again? Allen can't quite remember his face enough to match it to anything on his poster, and he frowns for a moment before letting the emptiness take over. Ah well. It didn't matter. He'd visit again next week, like he always did. Or did he? Was it once a week? Once every other week? On Thursdays and Sundays? What day was it today anyhow? Clamping down on the confusion rising in his brain and rattling him, Allen searched the past few hours for what had gotten him so worked up, but then shrugged and relaxed again. Trying to figure it out hurt, ached in the back of his heart and pulsed along the line in his skull, and he was distracted anyways as the nurse with twin ponytails opened the door, smiling widely and asking in a high pitched voice how he felt. He smiled back at her, fine, fine fine.

It was fine if he didn't remember.

 


End file.
